Requiem for a Nightmare

A story of survival and a libretto for six million.

Peter Gary was a nice Jewish boy. He was an only child living with his parents in Budapest, 1937.

And he was busy.

He studied languages and music. He spoke Hungarian, German, and French – he learned those languages at school – and after school he studied English (his father loved everything English).

His mother loved music – she came from a musical family and a long line of musicians – and encouraged him to attend the Franz List Royal Academy of Music. He studied piano, composition, and even attended a series of Béla Bartók’s master classes. He wanted to be a conductor.

He was educated, cultured, and Jewish. Not that he knew much about being Jewish. His Bar Mitzvah was his only Jewish experience, and that was terrifying. (He was given a crash course in Torah reading a few months before his 13th birthday and performed in front of a packed house at Europe’s largest synagogue. Not that anyone warned him before he showed up.)

His father was a successful businessman – the family was comfortably upper middle class, they owned a car! – and he was often away on business. Life was great.

And then came Christmas, 1941.

Peter was pulled from his comfortable life of languages and music and sent into hell.

Peter was 17. He was home alone with his mother – his father was away on another business trip – and there was a knock on the door. It was the Nazis. They barged in, brutalized Peter and his mother, forced them out of their home, and loaded them onto a truck. The truck was sent up north and Peter was pulled from his comfortable life of languages and music and sent into hell.

Just like that.

About 10,000 Jews were rounded up that Christmas in Budapest. And although the Nazis didn’t officially round up Hungarian Jewry until 1944, Peter was “lucky” (as he tells it). He was born in Poland in 1924 – his parents were traveling when his mother gave birth – and that made him “Polish” as far as the Nazis were concerned.

Peter and his mother were herded onto the last truck out of Budapest. They were taken to the middle of nowhere, along dirt roads, and into the woods. They heard machine gun fire. His mother told him, “Everything is going to be fine.” And she told him that over and over again. Maybe she believed it. He wanted to believe her. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out what the Nazis were up to.

The Ravine

“Schnell! Schnell!”

They got off the truck and were ordered to hurry up. There was another truck parked in front of a ravine. A machine gun was mounted to the back of that truck. They were ordered to take off their clothes – something horrifying to the spoiled, pampered, sophisticated Peter – and told to line up in front of the ravine.

And just before he heard the commander yell, “Fire!” he felt something hit him. It knocked him down. He heard screaming and gun fire. And then it was over. He was dead and under a pile of bodies.

It was late and the soldiers wanted to get home for Christmas dinner with their families.

“What if some of them are still alive?” one soldier asked.

“They’ll either freeze or the locals will get them,” another one answered.

And they left. Just like that.

His mother had taken two bullets, one for her and one for him.

Peter pushed his mother’s body off him. She had knocked him down. And she had taken two bullets, one for her and one for him.

Four people were still alive: Peter, two men, and a woman.

They walked. And they walked. They got off the dirt road and walked in the woods, it seemed safer. Peter clung to the woman. She was his only hope. They approached a town. It was Christmas day. They watched the town and waited for the locals to go to church. Once everyone was gone – and the streets and homes were empty – Peter and one of the men broke into a house. The man took booze. Peter took blankets.

And then they were back in the woods and walking. They walked for three and a half days. They were somewhere in Poland. They approached a town – it seemed familiar – and they sent the woman into town to see if she could find something, help, anything. They could only send the woman. In those days in Europe Jews were the only people who were circumcised. It was too dangerous for a Jewish man to be out and about. Plus, she spoke Polish. Peter spoke many languages but Polish wasn’t yet one of them.

And the woman knew someone. He owned a store and he wanted to help. He had a car. He would meet them, pick them up, help them get warm, and help them figure out what to do.

The two men weren’t interested. They didn’t trust anyone – could you blame them? – they hugged Peter and the woman and said goodbye. And they were gone. Peter and the woman waited for the ride.

The car arrived. The woman’s friend was a good person. He wanted to help. He brought them to his home, fed them and helped them warm up.

He spoke with the woman and tried to figure out what to do. They decided it was best – and safest – to go behind the German lines to Warsaw. The woman rode in the car but it was too dangerous for Peter to ride in the car, too. He was a liability – he was a circumcised man, he didn’t speak Polish – so they kept him in the trunk. Once in Warsaw, the safest place for Peter – at least it seemed that way at the time – was the Warsaw Ghetto. The man bribed a Polish cop and Peter was smuggled into the Ghetto. He was brought before the Jewish committee, they heard his story, and they took him in. He was set up with a nice family with boys his age.

And that was that.

Peter’s host family was shocked that he didn’t speak Yiddish – what kind of Jew doesn’t speak Yiddish? – but at least they could communicate. Peter was fluent in German and German and Yiddish are close enough. But his host mother warned him, “You have to learn Polish. If you don’t know Polish you’re dead.”

So Peter learned Polish. Fast. Polish is a difficult language. But it isn’t that difficult if your life depends on it.

After four and half months Peter was called up for a transport to the East. His host mother gave him a bundle and said goodbye. He was lined up and marched through the city with a thousand kids his age. The Polish locals lined the streets to watch the parade. The local women pushed through the police lines to harass them. They wanted the Jewish children to know what they thought of them. They hissed.

“You rotten kids will get what you deserve.”

Maybe they didn’t know that Peter was born in Poland. He was Polish, too. He was just like them. Or maybe they didn’t think like that.

Majdanek

Peter was sent to Majdanek, a camp set up just outside Lublin. It was built to house POWs and then converted into a death camp.

“Schlosser!”

Peter raised his hand. He doesn’t know why he raised his hand. But he did. Maybe someone raised it for him. Somehow – whether he was conscious of it or not – Peter was claiming to be a locksmith. And the Majdanek guards needed a locksmith.

The monster handed Peter a number of broken locks and ordered him to fix them. He didn’t know how.

Peter was taken from amongst the new arrivals. A Kapo escorted him – and hit him too, to earn extra points with the guards – and brought him off to a hut lorded over by a Ukrainian monster. The monster handed Peter a number of broken locks, ordered him to fix them, and left.

But Peter was a musician. He was good at languages. He had never seen the insides of a lock in his life. He didn’t know how to fix a broken lock. He didn’t have a clue.

He fiddled with the locks. He was aware that he was dead. Again. The monster was going to call the guards. It was just a question of time.

The monster returned and Peter fiddled with the locks. It was hopeless. The monster whacked Peter’s hands – his soft, pampered, musician hands – and hissed in his ear, “You have never seen a lock in your life!”

Members of the Sonder Commando received extra food. And that was welcome news to Peter. He found a way to get himself into the Sonder Commando. His first job was greeting the new arrivals. He lied to them. What else was he supposed to do?

His next job was unloading trucks. Majdanek was not yet a fully functioning death camp. The gas chamber was still under construction. Children were gassed in trucks – the exhaust was fed into the back of the truck – and Peter’s job was to take the bodies and bring them to the crematorium.

His third job was at the warehouse. He sorted books, underwear, teeth, hair, jewelry – the Nazis saved and used everything – and complied a careful inventory of items that came in. His comrades took things as they arrived, before they were inventoried, and hid them under their clothes. Peter didn’t have street smarts – he was a rich kid, he never had to hustle – and didn’t take anything.

But he learned. Quick.

Booty from the warehouses was traded. It was bartered to buy time. Jewelry was traded for food or aspirin or sulfur (and he needed aspirin and sulfur, he was sick with typhus). Survival was a commodity. Peter traded his way up to a better job. Construction.

The construction crew was a group of about three hundred men. They marched one hundred kilometers to a railway siding, were loaded into a cattle car, and sent on a long journey. From Poland to Dachau.

His job at Dachau was building an underground factory for BMW. But he was sick and he was getting thin. He still had typhus. And he heard they were trading Jews for trucks. Someone was. He was able to get transferred – or traded as part of a swap – to Bergen-Belsen.

And at Bergen-Belsen he met the new Hungarians arriving from Auschwitz. He was an old timer. They wanted to know his secret to survival.

His secret to survival? He didn’t know.

He was 76 pounds. He couldn’t walk. He knew the Allies were on their way (he could hear the guns). And on his 21st birthday – April 15, 1945 – the Nazis were gone. The British drove into camp to liberate it. Was Peter joyful? “Are you kidding?” he told me. “That word doesn’t exist.”

After the War

The British wanted to help but they were overwhelmed. The situation was not one they expected or planned for. They set up two small hospitals and tried their best to save the survivors. But those they felt weren’t going to make it they left to die. They didn’t have a choice.

One doctor walked the camp looking for people to save. He decided Peter was beyond saving. He was too thin, too sick, and couldn’t stand. “This one isn’t going to make it,” the doctor said to his comrades in English, not wanting to offend any of the survivors.

“Thanks a lot,” Peter answered back.

The doctor didn’t realize he was speaking about the son of an English-speaking Anglophile. “Did you just say that?” the doctor asked.

“Yes I did.”

He picked Peter up gently and brought him to the hospital. Peter was deloused and nursed back to health. The doctor came to visit and they became friends. He wanted to know what happened. He couldn’t believe what he heard.

Peter heard that the Americans were looking for interpreters. They needed people who knew English, German, Slavic languages. Peter knew them all (he picked up Russian, too, in the camps from the Russian POWs). He got the job – the Americans probably couldn’t believe their luck – and was sent to work in Paris.

Through his job he was able to find his father. His father had returned from his business trip to find his family gone. Friends took him in and hid him. He spent the war on the run. Two weeks here. Three weeks there.

After the war, Peter went to the Sorbonne and earned a degree in the humanities, letters, and music. He wrote his thesis on ethnomusicology, inspired by his classes with Béla Bartók from before the war (Bartók had recorded over 3,000 folks songs and was determined to bring music back to the people, away from the trends he didn’t approve of in classical music).

Peter moved to Germany but soon moved again, to the U.S. MGM – the movie studio – hired him to write music. He worked for them as a staff composer. But after about six months his boss told him, “We love you. But you are fired. Don’t take it personally.” The studio developed a way to churn out schmaltz at a fraction of the cost. Peter’s department was liquidated.

And Peter was unemployed. And unemployable. He was a musician, an educated man of letters, and a survivor of the death camps, but he was never taught how to earn a living. He didn’t know what to do. He tried selling books door to door. He was lost. He cried. Was this the best he could do? After everything?

But Peter is resourceful. He isn’t one to sit around crying. And after a few fits and starts he built a business and did well. He made enough money, quit, and moved to Vancouver Island just north of Seattle in Canada.

Why hadn’t anyone written a piece of music for the six million?

And every summer – for years – Peter went to a music festival in Carmel, California. He brought a copy of the score with him (of whatever pieces they were performing that year), sat in the audience, and conducted along with the orchestra. One year – 1974 – he forgot his score. He just listened. And it occurred to him that the music he was listening to – like a lot of classical music – was written for the church. It was religious music. And it was a story about the life and death of a Jew who lived two thousand years ago.

What about the six million Jews who died during his lifetime? Why hadn’t anyone written a piece for them?

He was inspired. He jotted a few thoughts on the back of his program. And when he got home he went to work. By the time he was done, he had written a Twentieth Century Passion: a massive composition about the lives and deaths of the Jews of Europe.

Peter’s Oratorio is 14 Librettos and takes up 562 pages of score. Some of the Libretto comes from poetry written by the children imprisoned and eventually carted off to their deaths from Terezin. Others are original. One is based on his own experience.

Peter donated the score to the University of Victoria and it will receive its world premier on his ninetieth birthday, April 2, 2014. (Almost his ninetieth birthday. His real birthday – April 15 – is the second day of Passover.)

And life goes on. Peter is a ray of sunshine and a beacon of positivity. He never lost his sense of humor (according to an article written to promote the premier, he claims that his wife says, “If I die before then [the premier], she’ll kill me.”). But his music isn’t funny. Not this piece.

“It is something for the six million. Something to mourn with.”

Although the University of Victoria is sponsoring the premier, there are still significant funds to be raised. Please click here to make a donation.

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About the Author

Tzvi Gluckin lectures extensively on a wide range of Jewish related topics. He is the author of four books including: Everything You Want Is Really Jewish, Discover This, and Knee Deep in the Funk: Understanding the Connection Between Spirituality and Music. He served in the Israeli Army, holds a B.M. in Jazz Studies from the New England Conservatory of Music, and is currently the director of Vechulai, an innovative Jewish think tank in Boston. For more information, visit his website at gluckin.com/.

Visitor Comments: 9

(8)
Inna,
October 23, 2013 9:44 PM

To Peter

Peter, thank you for the wonderful contribution you have brought to the world, that stems, sadly, from such a horrid place and time. May you be blessed to make more music in your years to come. I look forward with anticipation to hear your composition.

(7)
Galit,
October 21, 2013 10:04 PM

Another amazing story

This man Peter and those like him who had the courage to go on living, loving, and learning, help us ride the waves. G-d bless you Peter.

(6)
Kenan Moss,
October 21, 2013 1:13 PM

My wish for Peter Gary

There is nothing more wonderful than experiencing a work that has taken form in oneself, as a complete and independent creation. May HaShem grant you such a gift for your birthday. May I live to hear it too.

(5)
julie miller,
October 21, 2013 1:06 PM

no matter how often I here the horrors of the Nazi's & there collaborator's it never fails to shock me time & time again, this story of survival is a miracle , as are so many others & there were estimated of deaths toll of Roma (gipsy) who was also defined as "enemies of the race -based state" the death toll for the roma range in the holocaust from 220,00 to1.500,000 which was only recognised at all by west Germany in 1982 it has been known to be called the forgotten holocaust, called samudaripen ( mass killing) in romeness. Let Us remember the what happened to the roma as well lest we forget.

Robert Banks Foster,
November 5, 2013 12:25 AM

I would like it to be more inclusive, too.

I just read about this in The Torch. So I looked up Holocaust on Wikipeadia and saw what I had read in different Jewish books. That the total killed were 17 million people. Roma, Slavs, and important to me my group the attempted genocide of People with Disabilities. All need to be recognized, always. Just as the Jewish sources I have read have not trivialized the suffering of other people, I would hope that publicity for this event would not trivialize the rest of us.

(4)
Stephen,
October 21, 2013 2:49 AM

Love Music the Jewish People and their Humor

The Jew's Italians, and Blacks are the most humorous. And why should the Jews and Blacks not be humorous. Suffering brings humor when everyone else is persecuting you.

(3)
Dr. Dapo,
October 20, 2013 9:06 PM

together!

Everytime I read--study the Haulocaust, my heart beat very badly. Though as you know, it was a long time ago. But-not too long to forget. I say this myself, I know so the reason why I hate war is because I was born during the dcimation of humanity. It keeps going. We never stops killing each other. I know God says abot killing each other. Please-don't lie to me. The Lord our God spoke to us--thou shall not kill each other. Each other means we belong together. What then happens to the Jews in Israel and their neighbors Palestanians-for God sake? Killing at every village, city and nations. We're brothers and sisters. The Jewis people preach on that. Common-is anybody there? We keep doing the same thing killing and killingeach other. We must stop. WE must stop killng. Stop. The world has enough. Stop the killing.

(2)
jerome,
October 20, 2013 8:40 PM

survival

A chilling story indeed. It just proves the extreme survival instincts of man in general and jews in particular. That this talented man survived the war and found a way to carry on is remarkable. A lesson for all.

I live in rural Montana where the Cholov Yisrael milk is difficult to obtain and very expensive. So I drink regular milk. What is your view on this?

The Aish Rabbi Replies:

Jewish law requires that there be rabbinic supervision during the milking process to ensure that the milk comes from a kosher animal. In the United States, many people rely on the Department of Agriculture's regulations and controls as sufficiently stringent to fulfill the rabbinic requirement for supervision.

Most of the major Kashrut organizations in the United States rely on this as well. You will therefore find many kosher products in America certified with a 'D' next to the kosher symbol. Such products – unless otherwise specified on the label – are not Cholov Yisrael and are assumed kosher based on the DOA's guarantee.

There are many, however, do not rely on this, and will eat only dairy products that are designated as Cholov Yisrael (literally, "Jewish milk"). This is particularly true in large Jewish communities, where Cholov Yisrael is widely available.

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein wrote that under limited conditions, such as an institution which consumes a lot of milk and Cholov Yisrael is generally unavailable or especially expensive, American milk is acceptable, as the government supervision is adequate to prevent non-kosher ingredients from being added.

It should be added that the above only applies to milk itself, which is marketed as pure cow's milk. All other dairy products, such as cheeses and butter, may contain non-kosher ingredients and always require kosher certification. In addition, Rabbi Feinstein's ruling applies only in the United States, where government regulations are considered reliable. In other parts of the world, including Europe, Cholov Yisrael is a requirement.

There are additional esoteric reasons for being stringent regarding Cholov Yisrael, and because of this it is generally advisable to consume only Cholov Yisroel dairy foods.

In 1889, 800 Jews arrived in Buenos Aires, marking the birth of the modern Jewish community in Argentina. These immigrants were fleeing poverty and pogroms in Russia, and moved to Argentina because of its open door policy of immigration. By 1920, more than 150,000 Jews were living in Argentina. Juan Peron's rise to power in 1946 was an ominous sign, as he was a Nazi sympathizer with fascist leanings. Peron halted Jewish immigration to Argentina, introduced mandatory Catholic religious instruction in public schools, and allowed Argentina to become a haven for fleeing Nazis. (In 1960, Israeli agents abducted Adolf Eichmann from a Buenos Aires suburb.) Today, Argentina has the largest Jewish community in Latin America with 250,000, though terror attacks have prompted many young people to emigrate. In 1992, the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires was bombed, killing 32 people. In 1994, the Jewish community headquarters in Buenos Aires was bombed, killing 85 people. The perpetrators have never been apprehended.

Be aware of what situations and behaviors give you pleasure. When you feel excessively sad and cannot change your attitude, make a conscious effort to take some action that might alleviate your sadness.

If you anticipate feeling sad, prepare a list of things that might make you feel better. It could be talking to a specific enthusiastic individual, running, taking a walk in a quiet area, looking at pictures of family, listening to music, or reading inspiring words.

While our attitude is a major factor in sadness, lack of positive external situations and events play an important role in how we feel.

[If a criminal has been executed by hanging] his body may not remain suspended overnight ... because it is an insult to God (Deuteronomy 21:23).

Rashi explains that since man was created in the image of God, anything that disparages man is disparaging God as well.

Chilul Hashem, bringing disgrace to the Divine Name, is one of the greatest sins in the Torah. The opposite of chilul Hashem is kiddush Hashem, sanctifying the Divine Name. While this topic has several dimensions to it, there is a living kiddush Hashem which occurs when a Jew behaves in a manner that merits the respect and admiration of other people, who thereby respect the Torah of Israel.

What is chilul Hashem? One Talmudic author stated, "It is when I buy meat from the butcher and delay paying him" (Yoma 86a). To cause someone to say that a Torah scholar is anything less than scrupulous in meeting his obligations is to cause people to lose respect for the Torah.

Suppose someone offers us a business deal of questionable legality. Is the personal gain worth the possible dishonor that we bring not only upon ourselves, but on our nation? If our personal reputation is ours to handle in whatever way we please, shouldn't we handle the reputation of our nation and the God we represent with maximum care?

Jews have given so much, even their lives, for kiddush Hashem. Can we not forego a few dollars to avoid chilul Hashem?

Today I shall...

be scrupulous in all my transactions and relationships to avoid the possibility of bringing dishonor to my God and people.

With stories and insights,
Rabbi Twerski's new book Twerski on Machzor makes Rosh Hashanah prayers more meaningful. Click here to order...